The Lie in the Truth
by Max Novella
Summary: A terrorist attack sets the stage for Booth and Brennan’s most dangerous investigation yet when a bomb goes off at the Department of Justice. But the attack had a far more sinister purpose, and their knack for finding the truth may now endanger them all.
1. Chapter 1

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A terrorist attack in DC sets the stage for Booth and Brennan's most dangerous investigation yet.

When a bomb goes off at the Department of Justice, Agent Booth, and by extension Bones and the Squint Squad, become part of the FBI team investigating who was responsible and why. What none of them know is that the attack had a far more sinister purpose, and that their knack for finding the truth could result in deadly consequences to them all….

Takes place sometime between the events of the Season 5 premiere and the TBD events of the rest of the season.

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_**Author's Note: This is only my second fanfic, so please be kind....but REVIEW!!! I found throughout the process of my first fanfic that the more reviews I received, the better the story became. Your enjoyment of the story really does feed into the energy creating it, so FEED ME!!!**_

**_Oh yeah...."insert standard 'I don't own any of these people, places, or things' disclaimer here. Good thing, too, since they are all FICTIONAL!! :)_**

**_Happy Reading!_**

**_Max_**

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The Lie in the Truth

Chapter 1

"Bones, would you just wait a minute?" Special Agent Seeley Booth called after his partner, who was resolutely marching just a few quick strides ahead of him. "We need to finish talking about this!"

His partner, world renowned forensic anthropologist Dr. Temperance Brennan, didn't slow her rapid pace. "There is nothing to talk about, and further dialogue on the subject would be pointless," she offered, not turning around.

"Pointless?" he flared. "Talking about things that are important to me that I need to get figured out is suddenly pointless?"

_Deflection, Dr. Brennan. Deflection and avoidance._ She could hear Sweets' voice in her head, as if he were performing a running commentary on the predicament she now found herself in. True, when Booth had initially broached the subject she had panicked, but the open, earnest look in his warm brown eyes had quickly managed to crumble the resolve she had stockpiled for such an occasion. She had melted into those eyes and had prepared to open her mind, and heart, to Booth's discussion. Cam's subsequent call into her office had come at the worst possible time, quickly spoiling the moment and freezing that resolve back into place before she even had a chance to rationalize it.

"Cam said she needed me on the platform immediately, remember?" she shot back over her shoulder, simultaneously pulling her shoulder-length auburn hair up in a messy ponytail.

Watching her quickly stride away from him bolstered his frustration. He had stressed and fretted for weeks on how to best broach the subject, deciding again and again that it just wasn't the right time. Once he finally made the leap to proceed, he had been petrified at how she would respond. For just a brief moment he thought her walls had begun to come down; that they might actually have a fruitful conversation on the topic. She had turned to face him, with eyes that remained guarded but introspective and shining with emotion, and she had just opened her mouth to respond when Cam had called.

The moment had now effectively slipped through his fingers, disappointment now giving way to anger at another missed opportunity simply because of bad timing. He had seen the change in her eyes when the phone rang, as if they were shutters fending off an approaching storm. In only a millisecond they were slammed shut and the moment was gone. Months of internal battles and frustration now made their way to the surface, given air to breathe by her apparent relief at the respite.

He tapped the side of his temple with his index finger in an exaggerated show of sarcasm. "How could I have forgotten that? Oh, wait a minute," he suddenly stopped his pursuit of her in mid-stride. "That's right. I was in your office ten seconds ago when you got the call. How on earth could I have forgotten that already?"

She suddenly stopped in her tracks and turned to face him, her brow furrowed in an unreadable mixture of apprehension and worry. "Booth! Are you having complications involving short-term memory loss?" her words came fast, with a tinge of anxiousness. "Because if you are I really think..."

"Bones," he started to speak, slightly mollified at her obvious concern for him, but she was still preoccupied with her misunderstood assessment of his sarcastic response.

"...you should go back and see the doctor. With a procedure like yours..."

"Bones!" he tried again, raising his palms to face her, trying unsuccessfully to stop the barrage of words.

"...there are really many variables that can result in different side effects, each having..."

"BONES!" he finally roared, taking a step towards her. His voice seemed to shake the room, echoing off the high ceilings and back into her ears like the cadence of a drum.

Her eyes blinked rapidly, desperately trying to assess the smoldering look in his gaze that mirrored the taut lines etched into his face. His frustration was puzzling to her; after all she had only been trying to help. If he really was beginning to have problems with memory loss again, the sooner it was assessed the better. She internally shuddered at the thought.

Never again did she want to look into his face and see the eyes of a stranger staring back at her, those normally warm brown twinkling pools of expression dull, faded and lifeless. Even now, today in fact, he was in the middle of one of his animated stories when he suddenly couldn't remember the name of his high school science teacher. A moment of confusion passed through him, one that she had learned to recognize the symptoms of as if she were preparing for the onset of a seizure. And, as always, at the same point in the process his eyes went dead again. For just a split second she felt a familiar ripple tearing through her, and once again she glimpsed into that shell of a man that had emerged from his coma just a few short months ago.

The episodes had become further and further apart as the months went by, until she had finally managed to convince herself that maybe...just maybe...he was really and truly back for good. That perhaps he had fully returned to her somehow wonderfully whole and unscathed yet again. This morning's episode as they had left the home of their witness had left her feeling violated; feeling that her blind hope during his recovery had been shallow and unjustified at best, and at worst stupidly optimistic that he would ever truly be the man he was before.

Booth was still standing there, hands clenched, waiting for a response from his partner. He watched as a myriad of emotions flickered across her face, and for a brief moment his never-ending fascination with her broke through the oppressive frustration. He had never been able to tell what she was thinking, could never even remotely come close in fact, though his gut could usually tell when she was troubled or when something was weighing on her very heavily. Gauging by the look in her eye his gut was telling him he wasn't going to like the way the scales were currently tipping.

She suddenly righted herself, the consummate professional Doctor finally regaining control. The entire room had fallen silent, any spectators speechless at the fiery dynamic unfolding before them, when Brennan finally lifted her chin and met Booth's burning gaze. His stomach dropped into his shoes when he recognized the look in her eye, the one his gut had indeed just forecasted.

"You do not have to shout at me, Agent Booth. I do not have a hearing impairment. I was just trying to be helpful," she stated flatly, then turned on her heel and resumed her initial trajectory towards the platform.

Booth knew that voice. It was the same cold, clinical, detached voice that his partner used when performing her original assessment of human remains, only now it was over-emphasized by the emotionless steely mask of her face. Even more surprising was the fact that both had been fixed on him. He pulled back slightly, watching her back until she had ascended the steps of the platform, then punched the air twice in frustration.

Cam's gaze met his then cautiously flitted to Brennan, as confused about what had just happened as he was. "Dr. Brennan?" she inquired cautiously.

"Yes, Dr. Saroyan," she responded, not meeting the other woman's gaze as she leaned over the remains on the platform.

Cam studied her face, noting Brennan's cold and guarded expression. "What just happened here?"

At that Brennan righted herself and looked Cam in the eye. "I'm not sure what you mean, Dr. Saroyan. You called me and intimated that you had further information on the tool that possibly made the scrape marks on the C1 and C2 vertebrae. As I was neither here on the platform when you ascertained this information, nor have you verbally disclosed it to me yet, how could I possibly know what has happened here?"

Cam knew Booth had overheard their brief exchange as he moved out of sight down the hall, and even now she could hear him venting his frustration on a heavy upright metal garbage can as he walked past. "AARGH!!" he fumed angrily, then kicked the can just for good measure, scaring one of the lab techs into a slight squeal in the process. The heavy metal lid was knocked off the can and spun like a top on the hard concrete floor, the resonating echo of its rotating wobble audible throughout the entire lab. The silence that followed was filled only by the sound of Booth's shoes clicking softly on the floor as he slowly returned to his previous position at the bottom of the platform stairs.

Brennan stared at him, knowing uncomfortably well she was the source of his frustration even if she didn't understand the reasons why. Responding to the passionate emotions of her partner was something she would never be fully comfortable with. Emotions were dangerous and unknown for her and better kept at arms length as they moved her completely out of her comfort zone. Still, she felt the need to try to solve whatever problem he was currently dealing with. Maybe then the nagging fear of his brain damage would cease to invade her thoughts.

"Booth," she began in a strong voice, prepared to lecture him about destruction of Jeffersonian property before he cut her off.

"Bones," he said in an oddly unfamiliar and unwelcome tone. "I'm going back to my office. When you have a minute to _talk_," he emphasized, "give me a call." His broad shoulders slouched slightly, most likely only noticed by her, as he turned and made his way out of the lab.

Brennan turned back to the remains, suddenly desperate to distract her racing mind and set it back on a familiar course. She ignored the looks Cam was shooting her way, running her finger over the scratch patterns on the bones for several long moments until she could not take the heat of the other woman's gaze any longer.

"Yes, Dr. Saroyan?" she stated flatly, not removing her gaze from the trail her finger was making across the remains of the cervical vertebrae.

"Nothing," Cam responded, a little too quickly and in the tone that begged Brennan to deny there was anything to discuss. Brennan effectively ignored her and worked for several long minutes, feeling Cam's gaze on her back. That was until her brain suddenly felt as though it skipped a rhythm; the same feeling she experienced every time she discovered an anomaly.

"Look at this," she stretched out a long finger, re-tracing a deep, yet thinly made gouge. "This looks like it could have been made by a thin piece of metal or wire that imbedded itself in the bone." Finally she lifted her head, searching the room for Dr. Hodgins who was making his way towards the platform.

"Let me guess," he began, swiping his card and meeting her gaze as he rounded the table. "You found ligature marks on the bone."

"Yes," Brennan pointed to the vertebrae she had just been studying, her tone implying she was impressed that he was somehow ahead of her in his analysis. "How did you know?"

Hodgins held up an FBI evidence bag for both women to see, as if he were performing a magic trick on stage, then with a flourish reached in with a gloved hand and pulled out a small, thin wire. "This, my fair ladies, is a small strand of wire found twenty feet away from the body. It was collected with other evidence from the surrounding area at the scene and sorted into the 'We Don't Think It's Important' box by the FBI jugheads."

Brennan began to follow Hodgins through his thought process. "Yes, I see," she exclaimed, quickly becoming more animated. "It could have been used as a type of garotte!"

He smiled, blue eyes twinkling. "Exactly. Most modern garottes are made of piano wire, which is usually one of four common alloys: aluminum, brass, stainless steel, or in this case, copper." He gently wrapped the two ends of the thin wire between his hands, as if it were dental floss, and fit the wire easily into the grooves in the bone for a perfect match.

Brennan smiled, again meeting Hodgins' gaze. "Looks like we may have found our murder weapon," she surmised.

He nodded in agreement and turned to Cam. "I'll try to take some samples from the bone to see if we can match it with the specific smelting process used to make this particular wire sample."

"I'd better call..." Brennan's voice trailed off, realizing she was suddenly uncomfortable with the thought of following the familiar pattern of notifying her partner when they had a breakthrough in an active case. Booth had instructed her to call only when she had a minute to _talk. Well, I surely don't have a minute right now,_ she convinced herself.

"Dr. Brennan?" Cam questioned gently, outwardly witnessing the internal war the woman across the table was facing. "Should we call Booth and let him know?"

Brennan shook her head. "No," she stated quickly, "let's wait." At Cam's raised eyebrow she hurried to explain. "We'll simply wait until Dr. Hodgins can verify any traces of the copper in the grooves in the bone, and while he's doing that I'll attempt to get a better hypothesis of how this wire was used to kill the victim."

Cam was still looking at her oddly, with a mixture of sympathy and amusement on her face, and took a long moment before she finally spoke. "That's probably a good call. This way we can think through the process and be absolutely sure about things before we open up that discussion with Booth."

Brennan studied Cam for a moment, attempting to determine if she was really referring to the case, or making another one of her thinly veiled comments about the never-ending complications in her relationship with Booth. She quickly decided she had probably meant it as the latter and forced her professional tact to again regain its footing, but even to her own ears she sounded defensive when she responded. "It's purely a matter of scientific fact, Cam. Feelings have nothing to do with whether or not this piece of copper wire," she held it up in her hand, softly shaking it towards the body, "was actually the weapon responsible for making these grooves and most likely causing the death of this victim."

She pulled her cell phone out of her lab coat and hit speed dial #2, deciding to make a point to Cam that she could still be professional despite Booth's earlier outburst. "In fact, I will just call him to inform him of our initial analysis," she began, holding the phone to her ear, "and tell him our findings are not 100% conclusive yet."

The phone rang once, then twice, then three times before the recorded voicemail message answered. "This is Seeley Booth. Please leave a message and I will return it as soon as possible," followed by a loud beep.

_Why wouldn't Booth have answered his phone? _She wondered. _He must have been angrier than I originally thought..._

"Booth!" She surprised herself with the sound of her own voice as she recorded a message. "Hodgins is performing further tests that will hopefully prove conclusive, but we may have found the murder weapon used to kill our victim."

Her voice trailed off slightly and she turned her back to the bustle of the platform, lowering her tone further as she continued. "Please call me back when you get this message," she hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should address the earlier tension and then finally decided against it. "Bye," she said hastily, then snapped the phone shut.

Brennan suddenly swayed, grabbing onto the platform railing for support as the earth seemingly moved beneath her feet. Those lab workers with inferior balance were knocked to their knees as the shockwave rolled through the lab. It only lasted a moment, but as each person righted themselves all were suddenly fearful, wondering of the possible cause. Brilliant minds began racing through natural scenarios, such as earthquake, to the unthinkable thought suddenly brought to the forefront of their minds that none dared the strength to mention.

None, that is, until Angela raced out from her office, the remote control from the television still in hand and eyes shining with unshed tears of grief and loss.

"The Department of Justice building was just bombed. It's completely gone."


	2. Chapter 2

The Lie in the Truth

Chapter 2

Booth knew he finally had his frustration under control. For one, the knuckles gripping the steering wheel weren't quite as white as they had been five minutes ago. Secondly, he was now well aware that he hadn't been paying any attention whatsoever to the trajectory of his large SUV and had already made two wrong turns.

Normally he could drive the route between the J. Edgar Hoover building and the Jeffersonian with his eyes closed, as they were only on opposite sides of the capital mall, but his preoccupation with his partner and their earlier scene had distracted him to the extreme. Now he suddenly found himself completely aware and immersed in the never ending one-way streets, desperately trying to just get back to the quiet comfort of his office. _Get a grip, Seeley, before you kill someone with this tank, _he admonished himself.

A heavy sigh escaped his lips, and his eyes rolled with disgust at himself for losing his temper with his partner. In reality, he was mostly mad at himself for not having the guts to force the issue before now, and he should have known better than to try to discuss it at the Lab, of all places._ Guess I'll be needing to call later and apologize for being such a jerk,_ he thought wryly, for the odds of Bones calling first were probably slim to none.

The light turned green and he was finally able to turn right. Traffic was moving slowly today, most likely because of the approaching three-day holiday weekend and the large number of out of town tourists destined for the surrounding monuments. A fair weather forecast had obviously convinced most folks to enjoy one last nice weekend before fall began to turn into another bitter DC winter. Booth knew a change was coming soon simply by the growing number of leaves that waiting for him on his car every morning.

Despite the slow moving traffic and his preoccupation with his partner, he also knew the exact moment he became fully aware that something was "off". Booth often teased Brennan about the reliability of his gut, or as Angela called it his "FBI spidey-sense", but both knew and respected said gut well enough that when those hairs on the back of his neck began to stand, he had best pay attention. So when he turned down Constitution Avenue for the second time after circling the block, his conscious mind was suddenly and acutely aware that he had also just passed a large navy blue cargo van for the second time. He looked out the passenger side window, back up 9th street from which he'd come, quickly noting the van also looked empty.

Booth also noted with a start that it was parked directly alongside the Department of Justice building, where traffic is never allowed to park for security reasons. Prior attacks on the Murrah federal building in Oklahoma City, as well as post-9/11 had resulted in enhanced security in every American Federal building, and a renewed emphasis on every government agent being ever vigilant and constantly aware of their surroundings. He pulled over as quickly as he could, his stomach churning with dread. He was in the far left lane and had lost sight of the van as he turned the corner, but there was no room for him to back up in the bumper to bumper fray of Friday afternoon traffic. His vehicle was already straddling the curb in order to remove itself from the flow, and Booth halfway hoped a uniformed cop would show up to give him a ticket.

Quickly grabbing his phone, he punched in a familiar number to the FBI switchboard while simultaneously straining his neck to take in 360 degrees of his surroundings. Those hairs were standing on end now, shouting from the pit of his stomach to hurry. The operator answered and began her standard greeting but he interrupted. "Grace, this is Agent Booth. I need Agent Marks now. Code Red," he rushed.

She didn't acknowledge him, simply connected him into the emergency line of the FBI terrorist group as she was trained to do. Code Red meant only one thing – that an agent had either witnessed a terrorist incident, or had information that one was imminent. For a brief moment he doubted what his finely honed instincts were telling him; after all, he was comatose several months ago, and he had yet to convince himself that he was really and truly back to the top of his game. But his rational side had also been finely tuned through his tenure with Brennan, and it now screamed that at least if he was wrong it would be a much better ending to the whole story.

His phone beeped in his ear and he momentarily held it away from his head and stared at the display. _Oh boy, Bones, looks like both of us are blessed with bad timing today, _he thought ruefully._ At least she had called..._

"Booth, what've you got?" Agent Marks no nonsense voice came over the line.

"Got a navy blue cargo van, Virginia plate Victor Echo Alpha five six zero two parked in front of the DOJ, 9th street side. No driver or passengers. No feds out front." Booth knew standard security procedures from inside the federal building would have noticed the van by now and investigated unless they had already assessed the threat, were completely incompetent, or had become completely incapacitated. It was the latter option he was fearful of.

"Got it. No record of anything. Sit tight and keep your eyes open," Marks ordered.

"Yes sir," he replied snapping his phone shut. It beeped at him, notifying of a new voicemail message, presumably left by his partner, but that would have to wait for now. He strained his eyes across the three lanes of traffic towards the Justice building, turning in his seat slightly to try to look behind him. His seatbelt caught him across the chest and he was reaching down to remove it when a thunderous roar filled his ears. He was only aware of instantaneous heat and his vehicle being violently pitched before everything went painfully black.

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	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

_He was floating. Floating through space, suspended somehow by an invisible force, free from animation. There was no gravity, no air, no temperature...just...nothing. It was a black nothing, free from any light or color...or feeling...other than the awareness of being blissfully unaware._

_He didn't need to feel; couldn't even if he wanted to._

_He didn't need to breathe; couldn't even if he tried to._

_He didn't need to move; couldn't even if he needed to._

_Yet somehow, without knowing how, he knew he needed to move. To breathe. To feel. He wanted to breathe. He wanted to move. But why? What was driving this incomprehensible call to action?_

_His body began to tingle, ever so slightly. The edges of his blackness began to turn grey. He tried to feel, tried to breathe, tried to move, but something was preventing it. His floating sanctuary began to smother him with the pressure, his chest burning with the desire to simply rise and fall. The edges of his awareness started to fade into color, the black quickly becoming bright shades of red._

_He began fighting in earnest with the oppressive heaviness, his lungs burning as if he were now drowning in the spotted darkness. His mind felt battered and sluggish as it willed his body to react more forcefully. He could see the surface...could feel the increasing pressure on his entire being...could feel himself getting closer and closer as he fought through the sharp blast of colors. His body ached to be free of the pressure, lungs ready to explode from the exertion, and still he had to push his way free._

_At the same moment, simultaneously, his heart, lungs and head exploded in a sharp rain of crimson and heat..._

Booth's body lurched and his lungs burst full of air when he gasped, his mind registering only pain and disorientation as he greedily sucked in air. He struggled for breath, lungs burning as they were filled with a searing, acrid mixture of oxygen, smoke, and a mordant scent he was only vaguely familiar with. Eyes snapped open, only to be immediately full of tears and snap shut again as his delicate membranes struggled to protect from the oppressive heat and caustic smoke radiating around him.

_How can I be on fire, _he thought, _when I'm soaking wet?_ Disorientation was quickly turning into frustration as he desperately struggled to piece together what had happened...and for some reason his tie would just not leave him alone. He swatted it away from his face, aggravated, then hissed as his left shoulder protested the movement. Pain shot up his arm into his chest, and for a moment he wondered if he was having a heart attack.

Blinking quickly, he raised his right hand to shield his eyes from the heat and smoke, and was surprised when his fingers came away wet. His watery eyes struggled to focus, and realized his hand was covered in blood. Further examination told him it was quite a bit of blood, trailing all down the left side of his neck and onto his chest. Wiping his hand on his pants, he struggled to sit upright and found the task impossible as he was pressed painfully into the left side of the vehicle.

_His SUV...he remembered driving around in circles..._

The safety belt was still fastened firmly around him, drawn painfully tight across his chest...

_Scanning the 360 perimeter...seat belt was in the way...reached down to unbuckle it..._

Booth reached down with hi_s _right hand and unbuckled his seat belt. Instantly gravity threw him to the ground, which was, unfortunately, head first on his left side. Explosions of pain assaulted his senses, threatening to transport him back to the dark place. But the exact moment his battered left shoulder hit the car door, everything that had just happened in the previous half hour was slammed into him...

_Bones' stoic face as he left the Jeffersonian..._

_Driving around in circles in his SUV..._

_Navy blue van...shouldn't be there...damn spidey-sense..._

_Calling the FBI...Call waiting announcing Bones' bad timing..._

"..._Booth, what've you got?..."_

"..._Virginia plate, Victor, Echo..."_

"..._keep your eyes open..."_

_Seatbelt..._

His body had been slammed into the side of the SUV, which had somehow come to rest upside down. Assessing the damage to the vehicle from the interior, he quickly surmised that the only reason he was still alive was that he hadn't been able to reach his seatbelt before the blast and it had held him securely in place. Craning his head, he could see the driver's door was completely warped and crushed, the frame of the vehicle bent in such a way he would never be able to even fit through the window, much less open the door. The passenger side was even worse; if a passenger had been in the vehicle, seatbelt or not, they would not have survived the violent impact of the blast.

Renewed anger coursed through Booth's veins as he thought of the possibility of his partner or his son being with him at the time of the blast. Furiously he kicked with his feet to remove the remainder of the shattered and misshapen windshield before dragging himself out onto the ground beneath the flattened vehicle. His shoulder was still screaming in agony, reminding him of the last time he had almost been blown up, and made the relatively simple stomach crawl to free himself from the wreckage even more arduous.

_Geez, guess I need to quit letting my shoulder take the brunt of the impact...I'll have to remember that...for the next time I get blown up._

His lungs heaved again as he lay on the cool grass, pain shooting through his body from so many different directions that he couldn't count them all. For a brief moment his brain went completely fuzzy, desperately trying to cope with an overload from the multiple pain receptors, then immediately returned to full clarity as he heard a scream emanate from his left.

The Army-trained sniper with FBI training and a fierce protectiveness towards life took over then, despite his bleary countenance. Ignoring the pulsing from his shoulder and the seeping blood from his head wound, Booth pulled himself to his feet as best he could, staggering towards the source of the blood curdling scream he had just heard. For the first time he was finally able to see the full extent of the damage, and he was again rendered breathless.

It was gone. The massive Department of Justice building, whose halls Booth had strode through countless times, was utterly and completely gone. Only a smoldering crater and a small 12 foot section of one corner evidenced the previous structure that had sat there for decades. Not only that, but Booth suddenly realized he had been blown much further away from the building than he thought would be possible to survive. He had been two lanes and the width of a sidewalk away from the building when the bomb went off. The wreckage of his car was now easily 50 yards past that and well into the grass covering the capital mall.

His awed assessment of the scene was interrupted by another scream, high in volume but more anguished than before. The blood covering his face and his shirt made it hard to see, especially through the smoky haze that remained thick in the air, but Booth wiped his face and made a wobbly trail in the general direction of the painful sound. He came upon another car, both sides completely crushed as his had been but right-side up. A young woman, probably in her early twenties, sat behind the wheel, tears of pain and panic flowing freely down her face.

"Please help me!" she screamed weakly as she spotted Booth moving toward her. For the first time he was vaguely aware of a multitude of similar screams and pleas for help all around him, but he tuned them out when her frightened eyes met his. "Please!" she begged again, "I can't get out!"

Booth's savior mode kicked in high gear. He let out an agonized cry as he struggled to remove his suit jacket over his wounded shoulder, then reached through the tiny opening where the driver's side window used to be and covered the woman's head and face with the jacket.

"Keep this over your head," he rasped. "I need to kick out the windshield."

In a twisted scene of déjà vu, Booth kicked out his second windshield of the day, pulling the frame of the safety glass away from the car. Deftly he reached in with his right arm and popped the seatbelt, thankful that the invention had saved at least one more life today. _Though I'm not entirely sure they had terrorist attacks on the crash test list..._he thought bitterly.

"My ankle is caught on something," she sobbed, feeling slightly safer since the stoic man had come to her rescue. "I can't get it out, and I need to get out of here," she said in a high pitched voice, the thought of being anchored to her vehicle resuming the panic.

"Hey, it's okay. We're gonna get you out of here and you'll be just fine," Booth promised. He stroked her face gingerly, partially to soothe her and partially to assess the good-sized knot that had formed on her forehead. "Hey, what's your name?" he asked, shifting his position on the hood of the car and trying to take her mind off of his large hand running down her leg to find the point of resistance.

"A...A...Anne," she offered weakly, shivering with the chill.

"Okay, Anne. What I need for you to do is..." he paused, feeling the slick, sticky fluid on his hand as he finally reached where her foot should be. "Um, wiggle your foot, can you do that?"

She nodded dumbly, and Booth felt the smallest movement. "Great. Now, does that hurt?" He pressed fairly hard into her ankle, but she shook her head. "How about that?" he asked, pressing further down her foot. Again, nothing but a shake of her head. He reached his hand up and tucked his suit jacket in around her.

"Okay, I'm going to have to go find something to pry your foot out of there. It's caught pretty good," he turned to leave.

"NO!!" she screamed. "Please don't leave me!" she grasped onto his left arm, sending him to his knees as the new waves of pain rolled through him. He lowered his head between his knees to keep from passing out or vomiting, then wondered if it was a good idea when he became lightheaded and noticed blood continuing to drip from his head into the grass.

"Oh! I'm so sorry," she apologized, more panicked now than ever. "Sir?" she questioned. "Sir, are you allright? Please answer me, sir!"

"Booth," he whispered. Her pale and sweaty face scrunched up, confused. "My name is Booth, don't call me sir," he offered again, trying to straighten up and put on a brave face for her benefit.

"Okay," she trembled, frightened further at the flashes of pain still remaining on her hero's face. "I'm sorry," she offered breathlessly. "I was just so scared you were going to leave me."

His eyes became intense then and all traces of pain were gone when he stared at her face. "I will not leave you, Anne, I promise. I will make sure you get out of here, no matter what."

She smiled then, a beautiful but weak and fading smile, and Seeley Booth knew he would honor that promise no matter how badly his own wounds were screaming for attention.

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AUTHORS NOTE: Hope you're enjoying this so far - PLEASE REVIEW!! It was tough to try to even imagine the scene after something like that, and I'm sure there's no way I could do it justice so I decided to use a more micro-focus. And don't worry, Anne is just a passing character - someone to prove that our Seeley is a hero no matter what the circumstances. This will be a lengthy story, and updates won't come as often as I'd like, so please just hang in there - we'll really get rolling in a few more chapters. Either that or just wait and catch it when it's completely done! :) Thanks for reviewing!


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: Okay, just to clarify and hopefully appease some of you who have reviewed. (And thank you for that, by the way!!) For purposes of my story it was the Department of Justice building that was bombed, not the J. Edgar Hoover FBI Building - they are actually across the street from one another. It has been several years since I've been to DC so my relative geography may be slightly off. And yes, I realize that the building itself is huge. But I have also been to the Pentagon the week after 9/11, and I have visited the Ground Zero site in NYC and the Oklahoma City Memorial. I have seen firsthand what vast amounts of hatred can so easily destroy, and have seen the tragic results of those families left behind. I haven't wanted to focus too much on that horrible part of it, because that would be way darker than I want to go for this story. But I also hope that we as Americans NEVER EVER forget about what happened on those days, and that we carry it with us as an important part of our history that we can learn from and hopefully never ever allow to happen again.

OK, off the soapbox, and on with the story!!!

Max

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Chapter 4

She was beyond worried. Worried was something she had passed hours ago, when the group first learned that the building directly across the Capitol Mall, the building directly adjacent to where the FBI building was located, had been completely destroyed. Worried was something she had felt when she tried the first of many calls to his cell phone, to be met again and again with only the standard voicemail she had received only moments before the bombing.

No one dared voice the opinion, or the growing fear that they all shared, but as the hours dragged by with no word from Agent Booth they all began to suspect the worst. She had, predictably, thrown herself into her work, purposefully avoiding the frequent updates brought to the group by Angela, whose office had been turned into information central due to the large flatscreen plasma now permanently fixed on the news feeds. Call after call had been placed to the missing Agent's cell, work, and even home phone, with no response or further information from any of the FBI sources they had contacted as well. No one there seemed to know where Agent Booth was or might be, and at the moment their top priority was the current issue right outside their own building, not searching for one single agent in a growing list of unaccounted for personnel.

The platform had become deathly quiet, punctuated only by the occasional sounds of Dr. Brennan's instruments clinking against the cold metal table. Her responses to initial attempts at conversation or consolation had become more succinct, and her usually methodical instructions to the interns had become nonexistent, until all those around her had finally vacated the area leaving her to work alone in complete and utter peace; just the way she preferred it.

She didn't try to fool herself, for she knew as well as everyone else that Booth would have been in harm's way at the time of the blast. His normal route to the J. Edgar Hoover building took him directly past the Department of Justice building, well within blast range of the bomb. Details on the blast had come in slowly at first, but had rapidly proceeded to increase both in detail and number. The most recent report now indicated that a large cargo van, spotted directly outside the building prior to the blast, was suspected of carrying enough accelerant and propellant to not only completely level the DOJ building, but also destroy over half of the National Archives directly across the street as well as damage most of the northeastern corner of the Jeffersonian Museum of Natural History.

It was an extremely powerful bomb that had effectively caused an inordinate amount of damage, both to property and to life. She had managed thus far to tune out most of what the others were quietly discussing, but she had heard the most recent death toll easily mounting over 300. The building was staffed, despite being a Friday afternoon, and the area directly outside had been full of tourists and traffic. Rescue workers were not expecting to find many survivors trapped in the building alive, but remained ever hopeful that they would be proven wrong. As of yet none had been found, and instead the death toll continued to rise.

She knew if he was among the dead it may be weeks before he could be positively identified. The thought, the notion, the very idea that he could possibly wind up on her examining table was enough to make her pause, only for a second, and close her eyes ever so briefly. Unbidden, a thought came to her mind, and she was unsure as to whom exactly it was directed but followed the path of her heart nonetheless. "_Please_," her wayward heart begged silently, "_please let him be okay_."

Opening her eyes, she felt more despondent than ever. If he was indeed gone it would be her fault. He never would have left the lab, never would have been even remotely close to the blast if they hadn't fought earlier. He would have been here in his rightful place, by her side, as she worked over the body; teasing her, attempting to distract her, prodding her to keep her on her toes. And after the lab tilted, when the news began to filter in and the death toll mounted, he would have been the strong, stoic wall they could all lean on for comfort and guidance. He would have been there.

He would still be here.

She faltered, dropping the instrument she was holding and cringing slightly when it hit the floor. She closed her eyes again, dropping her head, arms outstretched to support her sagging body against the side of the table. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the moisture to dissipate, wondering why this time was so different. _This time...was it different?_

_He had died once before._ Karaoke, then a gunshot, and two of the worst weeks of her life had followed. The only comparative equivalent to the kind of gut-wrenching, mind-numbing pain she experienced with Booth's death had been the first few months after her parents disappeared when she was sixteen. At the time, she remembered thinking that somehow Booth would be disappointed in her. That he would be disappointed knowing all of the progress he had made getting through to her, and in turn getting her through to the outside world, had been erased with one bullet to the chest of one very special agent. That he would somehow be beside himself seeing how she had turned into only a shell of the woman she had once been beside him. There really had been no other option for her, though, because just as it was now, his death had been entirely her fault.

_He came back._ One minute she was mad at the world and her own stupidity for letting him die, prematurely and unnecessarily, and the next she was acting on instinct; protecting him, alive and well, from an unknown assailant. The anger she felt at him for the incident still remained, though she had proved Sweets right and dutifully compartmentalized. But aside from the heated tongue lashing she gave him that night in his bathroom they had never adequately dealt with the repercussions of the whole incident.

Her eyes snapped open, suddenly and acutely aware that someone was studying her from across the platform as they slowly drew closer. It was Angela, and Brennan cringed when she noted the 'I want to talk about what you're feeling' look in her eyes. The artist quickly made her way across the platform, eyes red from hours of watching traumatic news footage, and stood facing the scientist.

"Bren, sweetie, please come in here with the rest of us," she motioned to her office, where the remaining staff, Booth's special squints, had taken up residence in front of the large plasma.

"Why?" Brennan questioned, truly puzzled as to how it would help the situation.

"To be with other living, breathing, human beings in a time of crisis, that's why," Angela rubbed her friends arm. "This isn't something that happens every day. It's shocking, it's senseless, and it hurts like hell," she continued. "Now is the time to be with people who feel your pain and hurt just as much as you do. Who are upset and disgusted with the amount of needless damage that one demented and twisted action can cause."

Angela hesitated, only a moment. "And because Booth would want you to be in there with us, not up here poring over some dead guy that will still be here tomorrow."

At the mention of her partner Brennan's head rose sharply. Angela had been experiencing the same feelings of panic and dread regarding Booth's whereabouts and lack of communication. They all had, in fact, though without the heavy feelings of guilt threatening to consume Brennan. They had spent the last fifteen minutes discussing how best to proceed given the circumstances, and had ultimately decided to first prepare themselves, and their friend, for any confirmation of their fears that might come in the immediate future.

It had sounded good in their little "squint huddle", as Booth liked to call it, to try to coerce Brennan into their fold of humanity, but as soon as the words came out of her mouth Angela felt like a complete and utter failure as her friend. "I'm sorry, Brennan, that didn't come out right at all," she started to apologize, but was cut off.

"It's alright, Angela. I understand that you only said that because you are concerned about my self-imposed distance from the standardized human response to this tragic event." She could see her friend's eyes begin to grow wide, wondering where she could possibly be going with this, so she decided to attempt a layman's approach.

"It best correlates to the 'circle the wagons' philosophy dating back to the frontier days of the pioneers in the old west. As danger was imminent, or if an enemy attacked, the response was to form a perimeter of all individuals united as a common front to thwart future or consistent attacks. It's the same philosophy used by various Indian tribes as well, whereby they would band together as one large unit in order to appear much larger in number, as opposed to fighting their enemies individually."

She took a step closer to Angela. "What I'm trying to say in my own obviously completely ineffectual way is..." she paused, looking down at her shoes for only a second before meeting her friend's eyes once again. "Thank you. Thank you for not wanting me to fight my enemies myself."

Angela stared at her moist eyes for only a moment before pulling her close and enveloping her in a hug. "It will be okay." And then, cautiously, "He will be fine." Through her arms she felt Brennan's breath hitch in her chest, followed only by a whisper. "Booth."

Angela hugged her fiercely again and took a step back, surprised at her usually stoic friend's sudden show of emotion simply because of a hug. She halfway expected to see tears streaming down Brennan's face, but instead she was staring out into the lab, as if in a trance. Her face had become paler than Angela had ever seen it, and her lips quivered as she simply whispered again.

"Booth".


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: Okay, so I have to apologize. I really did not intend to go this long between updates. If you were with me during the writing of my first story, Head or Heart, you know I usually post updates pretty regularly. In fact, I think I drummed that whole story out in the space of a month or so. So the fact that it's been forever since Chapter 4 was published makes me want to hang my head in shame. I'm sorry that I have left you hanging, but life has gotten in the way of fiction over the last few months! I will try to do better from here on out, but the holidays are coming up so please don't take offense if the next month is sporadic at best. I promise this story will be completed as soon as possible!

Thanks for hanging in there, and as always, reviews are appreciated!

Max

* * *

Chapter 5

"Oh my God," Angela gasped, turning to discern what had taken the color out of Brennan's face, and was almost rendered mute herself at the sight before her. Immediately the artist sprang forward, her arms dropping from around Brennan's still form as she raced down the platform steps.

"It's Booth! He's here! Booth's here!" she yelled joyously over her shoulder, alerting the others of his sudden presence.

_He is alive...safe....and here, _Brennan thought_. _And then suddenly, just as before, came an internal mantra guided towards some unseen, unnamed destination.

_Thank You._

She was able to make it as far as the top of the platform steps before she suddenly felt as though her feet were encased in concrete and could move no further. Her mind barely registered the lack of movement towards him. For now her eyes were content to simply stare at his living, breathing form, fatigued and battered as it was.

The Jeffersonian security guard who had assisted Booth into the lab gave him a gentle pat on the back, knowing he was obviously turning the exhausted and injured man over into good hands. Angela simultaneously plowed into his chest, the impact of the forceful embrace knocking the thick wool blanket from around his shoulders and revealing the sling holding his left arm close to his body. It also caused a _whoomph_ of air to escape his chest, followed by a short hiss of pain.

"Ang," he rasped in agony. Her tight grip released instantly with the realization she was causing him pain.

"Sorry! Sorry," she repeated, patting his broad chest gently. "We're just so glad you're alive," she smiled, motioning over her shoulder to the sudden presence of the many joyful and relieved faces behind her. She took a step back so that they could all gaze upon the weary agent, cherishing the sight of their friend previously feared lost.

Cam looked at the extensive amount of dried blood on his face, neck, and chest, as well as the trail it had made down his now dingy and ripped white dress shirt. "You okay?" she motioned towards the large white bandage covering his head wound.

Booth nodded gently, eyes hooded with ache and exhaustion. "Yeah, I have a hell of a headache but nothing a good night's sleep won't cure," he grimaced, trying his best attempt at a patented charm smile to match his forced jovial tone but utterly failing on all accounts. His pained eyes sought out Brennan, noting her eyes were moist with unshed tears even while she kept her distance. She seemed hesitant to approach him, as if she were unsure of herself, but when he painfully began to move towards her position on the platform she quickly descended the few steps to his side.

"Bones," he questioned carefully, in a voice thick from smoke and his emotional response to the day. "Would you mind giving me a ride home? My car is...um...well...my car is toast, both figuratively and literally."

Wordlessly she placed a warm hand on his battered cheek, then enveloped him in a tender embrace, clinging to him carefully while trying to avoid hurting his injuries. "Have you been examined by medical personnel?"

He nodded painfully. "Yeah, the paramedics gave me a once over about an hour ago."

Several sets of eyebrows rose, none higher than those belonging to the medical examiner and the anthropologist. "And what exactly does a 'once-over' involve?" Cam voiced.

Booth shook his head slowly, partially because it was an extremely agonizing movement, and partially because Brennan could see he was struggling with his emotions. "I guess they figured since I was still breathing that I was a pretty low priority."

A sharp silence fell over the small group. What had been joyous only moments ago suddenly served as a reminder than many families would not be welcoming their loved ones home that evening. Booth looked at Brennan, willing her to see his need for her mere presence in his eyes, hoping she could somehow decipher that he needed to be alone with her.

Brennan knew he wanted to rest, and more than likely wanted to go home to his own bed. Unfortunately that wasn't an option. "Every street for a 15 block radius is closed. Parking garages are locked down. We could probably get you home tonight, Booth, but it would take hours and we'd have to go through many security checkpoints just to get out of the immediate area."

She cast a glance at Cam, seeking her approval. Wordlessly the other woman nodded. "Why don't you use the shower here at the lab and get cleaned up, and then Cam can give you another 'once-over' before you get some rest on my couch."

Booth opened his mouth to protest, but his weary attempt was cut off by three very stubborn, very caring female friends.

"No," Brennan argued, replacing the blanket that had fallen from his shoulders. "You need to get checked out. You can either have Cam do it or I will find a way to get you to the hospital myself. You know how much you hate hospitals..." she trailed off.

His shoulders sagged, and for once he nodded in agreement without arguing. She was taken aback, wondering just what had happened in the previous several hours. She could attribute most of it to the physical pain he was experiencing, her trained eye monitoring every movement to catalogue his injuries. She could tell they would all cause him further trouble in the morning after all of the adrenaline had been purged from his system and weary and battered muscles began to protest. But there was also a hollow, empty look in his eyes, oddly reminiscent of the post-coma Booth that scared her more than any physical injury. She knew he was no longer a formal solder, but the best word she could think of to describe his countenance was "shell-shocked".

* * *

Twenty minutes later she poked her head into the bathroom door, prepared to place the clean clothes she had acquired for him on the counter and leave. The small bathroom was quickly becoming steamy, and Brennan could hear the steady pattern of water hitting the tile floor. What she was not expecting was the hitched sound of her partner quietly sobbing from within the drawn shower curtain.

Concerned that he had possibly hurt himself further and needed help, she fully entered the bathroom and moved to stand next to the shower stall. From between the wall and the curtain Brennan caught a glimpse of something that momentarily took her breath away. Her partner was sitting on the floor naked, head in his hands, sobbing while the hot water poured down over his bruised and swollen body. Briefly a war waged within her – did she violate his privacy hoping to comfort him or did she leave some of his pride intact and retreat?

Strengthening her resolve she chose the former. Grabbing two thick towels she moved the curtain aside slightly and reached in to turn off the water. He looked back at her, eyes screaming for consolation, and at that moment she knew she had made the right choice. Pushing the curtain open the rest of the way, she knelt down beside him and wrapped him in one warm towel, gently avoiding his wounds as she dried his hair and face with the other. After a few moments the gentle sobbing had subsided, but his eyes were still moist as they finally gazed at her face as if he were seeing her for the first time.

"Bones," he croaked weakly. She smiled gently, waiting for him to continue. Wordlessly his arms wound around her, wrapping her in a tight embrace, his warm moist face burying itself in the crook of her neck.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Her heart wanted to melt, so overcome was she with emotion for this man. Her always tough and cocky protector, her knight in FBI standard-issue body armor, was taking comfort from her. She was simply here, consoling him with her presence and the knowledge that he was vulnerable; though she was not completely unaware of the fact that he was completely naked. For now, though, that was only secondary to the fact that her emotionally and physically battered partner had witnessed a terrible act of violence today, one that she was sure he would not soon forget. Right now he simply needed her as a living, breathing human being, and a reminder that he himself was still living and breathing when so many others were not so fortunate.

END OF CHAPTER 5


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: Warning, this chapter gets a bit gory in one scene, as it describes what Booth experienced directly after the bombing. Not too bad, but if you're sensitive to that sort of thing please be warned.

Reviews are always appreciated!

CHAPTER 6

Five days later

"..._342 confirmed dead in Justice Building bombing...assumed to be the work of a terrorist organization, though no credit has yet been claimed."_

Booth threw the Washington Post down in disgust as he waited for Brennan at the diner. Since the bombing, all of their current cases had been put on hold while the Jeffersonian staff was utilized to identify the bombing victims and all Federal agencies focused on the event itself. The FBI had used their proximity in the Hoover Building across the street to launch a joint investigative task force with Homeland Security and ATF. Booth, because of his early warning call and proximity to the bombing itself, had been given a special leadership role in the investigation, though he remained under the ultimate control and direction of the special-agent-in-charge.

The whirlwind of events and government bureaucracy that followed had allowed five days to come and go with only minimal contact between he and Brennan, and this was the first opportunity they had to even see each other since the morning after the bombing. For both of them, the last few days had been filled with only a blinding drive to find answers.

He had originally convinced her to meet him simply as a means to get her out of the lab for an hour in order to eat dinner. Knowing her as well as he did, he was sure she had not slept or eaten properly since her role identifying victims had been established. But as the time drew closer for her to arrive the agent realized more and more that he was simply excited to see her face.

The morning after the bombing he had woken on her office couch, surprised to see her curled up on the floor next to him sound asleep. Booth thought sure she would have been hard at work already, or at a minimum keeping her distance after she had discovered him weeping in the shower. His jaw clenched as he thought of himself sitting buck naked while his partner tenderly dried him off, and even more so as his mind filled with images of clinging to her like a drowning man to a life preserver. His mortification the next morning when he realized what had happened was soothed only by the still tender sense of grief and horror that had forced him into her arms in the first place.

Most of that night on her couch had been spent in a fitful sleep, with only brief periods of rest solely due to his body's sheer exhaustion. Periodically he would be brought fully awake by the shooting pains from his dislocated shoulder; a welcome respite compared to the memories of Anne dying within his grasp, helpless to do anything but watch. For a man like Seeley Booth, watching an innocent victim die before his eyes while he was powerless to prevent it was something that cut through his heart with all of the precision of a surgical tool.

Now he rested his right elbow on the table, momentarily closing his eyes and rubbing his rough hand over his face. He couldn't forget the look of terror on Anne's face as she realized she was going to die; that her savior was powerless to help her. Probably because she had only been a mirror image of his own horror-struck expression. Her foot had been completely crushed by the vehicle's interior, to the point where it had almost been amputated, and most likely it would have taken the Jaws of Life and several trained professionals to save her. Not that he didn't try...

_She pulled his jacket tighter around her, beginning to shiver in the cold night air. "B..B..Booth," she chattered, "I'm s..s...cared."_

_He gave her the best charm smile he could muster. "It's okay, Anne, I'm going to have you out of there in no time," he lied, wiping his bloodied hand on his pants so that he could hold her head steady to look into her eyes. He could see she was fading fast, her face rapidly becoming pale and her breaths becoming more and more shallow. Her eyes closed for a long moment, as if she were extremely tired, and when they opened again he sucked in a breath….it was as if he were staring into the eyes of Brennan...and Parker...and every other person in the world that he cared about._

_This woman, this stranger, represented the core of the horror caused by this massively devastating attack. She was innocent, unrelated, and soon to be a casualty of another senseless act of violence._

_He couldn't let that happen._

_He had to save her. He had to prove to himself, and to whatever bastards had done this, that he could protect those around him. That men like him, the shepherds of justice, were capable of watching over their flock and keeping the wolves away. With a renewed sense of purpose he ignored the pain shooting through his shoulder and lungs, as well as the blood that continued to flow down his face and neck. After several minutes of excruciating effort he finally managed to pry the car door open, and in one motion he had whipped off his belt to fashion a makeshift tourniquet._

_She groaned only slightly when he cinched it tight directly below her knee. He reached down, wondering how he would prepare her for the movement that was sure to hurt like hell; hopefully her leg was as numb as it had been when he originally prodded it. Running his hand down her shin again, he exhaled sharply as he realized that her foot was not only pinned, but absolutely crushed. His hand felt the magnitude of the large puddle of blood on the floorboard, and realized that if he couldn't get her out of the car she would most likely bleed out within a matter of minutes._

"_It's allright, Anne, I'm going to get you out of there." He kept talking to her, partially to reassure her that he was there, and partially to keep his brain occupied with speech in order to ignore what the rest of his body was doing. He almost gagged as he gently felt through the flesh and bone that used to be her ankle, trying desperately to find the anchor point holding her to the car. Although it was completely crushed, he could tell there was even less anatomy attached to the remainder of her leg than he originally thought._

_He considered forcibly trying to pull her leg away from the crushed foot. He knew the pain must be unbearable, but he had to free her from the car and get her leg elevated, bandaged, and under direct pressure if there were any hope of stopping the bleeding. If it meant severing the rest of her foot in order to save her life he would do it without question. He looked up at her, realizing she was quiet again now, her head slowly lolling against the seat._

"_Anne?" he questioned. No response. "Anne!" he shook her gently. Halfway hoping she was simply in a deeply unconscious state and desperate to free her from the metal death trap, he braced himself against the car and pulled on her leg with all his might. With a sickening rip of flesh he managed to pull her free of the mangled vehicle. Immediately he lay her flat on the ground and lifted her leg to rest on the car seat, tightening the belt another notch. He placed a hand on her chest to feel for breaths, and after several long moments was rewarded with a gentle rising motion. His suit jacket was placed over her in a futile attempt to keep her warm before standing to scout out emergency personnel._

_The flashing red lights of an ambulance drew him like a beacon some 75 meters away and he ran toward it at the quickest speed he could manage. The EMT regarded him warily as he approached, and Booth quickly realized she was performing CPR on a young child that must have been burned severely by the blast. To his right another worker was placing a sheet over a young man and woman, presumably the girl's parents. To his left an elderly man was disoriented and crying, saying he couldn't find his wife. Next to him another EMT was applying a tourniquet to a teenage boy's arm, desperately trying to staunch the flow of blood._

_Anne._

_Booth grabbed the next man in uniform as he rushed by. "You have to come with me," he ordered. "There's a girl hurt over there," he pointed to the direction he had come._

"_There's people hurt everywhere, sir," the EMT stated heatedly, continuing his previous path into the carnage._

"_No, you don't understand...she lost her foot. I put on a tourniquet but she's got to get to a hospital NOW!"_

_The driver stopped and assessed the man before him. He obviously had a concussion gauging from his dilated pupils, and definitely needed some stitches on that head wound. He was cradling his left arm with his right, and unconsciously trying to support his ribcage. Probably had a dislocated shoulder, and more than likely some broken ribs. Hopefully no internal injuries. And yet he was still trying to help someone else. He slung his bag over his shoulder and said, "Show me where."_

_Booth took off at an uneven sprint, leaving the man to catch up. In moments he was back at Anne's side, her lips now a frightening shade of blue. The driver quickly took in the scene and Anne's amputated foot, and placed his fingers against her neck searching for a pulse. He moved his fingers slightly, but could find nothing. He glanced into the car and saw enough blood to know that the woman most likely could not have been saved, even if she had been in an emergency room fifteen minutes ago._

_As gently as possible the paramedic explained that to the injured man at his side. He wasn't sure if the man had heard him or not, but there were people crying for help all around him and he couldn't waste precious seconds repeating himself when others may be dying. He began to hesitatingly walk away, and only left with, "I'm sorry..."_

"...sorry I'm late!" Brennan rushed, taking a seat across the table and stopping cold as she observed the heavy countenance of her partner.

Tearing himself away from his internal anguish, his face lit up in a genuine smile when she came into his field of vision. "Hey ya, Bones! Have a seat."

"Are you okay?" she questioned, not wanting to let the moment pass if Booth was finally ready to open up about what had happened the night of the bombing. He had not said a word about it since that night she had witnessed him privately break-down in the shower. In fact, since then he had showed no emotion behind his staunch quest for justice, other than a thinly veiled hint of anger.

_Though it's true we really haven't had any time all week to talk, _she mused.

Briefly she felt a twinge of guilt for becoming so engrossed in her work the last few days, but quickly reminded herself that Booth had dove into this task headfirst and had been just as inaccessible. But still, the normal childish twinkle that typically brightened his eyes had dulled since that night, and he seemed to now be carrying the weight of the world on his broad shoulders. Whatever he had encountered had scarred him deeply, and she only hoped it would heal given enough time.

"Yeah, I'm fine!" he said, too quickly and far too cheerfully, anxiously trying to force the smile into his eyes. He could tell by the way she was studying him that she didn't buy any of it, but he also knew she would not press him until he was ready. She would give him "time and space" and let him deal with it in his own way.

"What did the doctor say about your shoulder?" she asked, motioning to the heavy black sling pressing his left arm tight against his chest.

He was thankful for her abrupt change in the subject, but now an obvious frown penetrated his eyes when he gazed at her. "Says I have to wear this stupid sling for at least 6 weeks," he pouted, "then be re-assessed to make sure I didn't permanently damage anything. How in the heck am I supposed to do my job with only one good arm?"

Brennan nodded her agreement with the doctor's assessment. "His treatment plan sounds reasonable." She grabbed a menu and opened it as she continued. "All of the tendon and ligament damage will have begun to heal by then so the doctor should be able to formulate a good baseline comparison to determine if any future surgeries or rehabilitation therapy is necessary."

She was rambling and she knew it. And she hadn't looked at a menu in that diner for years. She was covering, stalling, hoping desperately that Booth wouldn't notice how on-edge she was. But he had noticed, immediately, and in turn began to further scrutinize his partner. As he suspected, her normally thin body had somehow become even more waif-like, and her pale skin was now accented by dark circles under her eyes.

"When was the last time you ate, Bones?" he queried.

Her head shot up from where it was hiding behind the menu, wondering how far she could push the truth before he would know she was lying. In the end, she decided honesty was the best policy with him, as always, because he ferreted lies for a living and would surely discern the difference.

"Um, what time is it...?" She checked her watch. For a brief moment his heart soared, safe in the knowledge that she was becoming more responsible with herself, for watches usually meant only differences in hours versus days. "Breakfast?"

"Is that a question or an answer?" he said, trying to hide a smirk. He was half-smiling now, through his grin, so she wasn't about to tell him it was breakfast yesterday. After all, that wasn't a lie...he just hadn't been specific enough in the format of his question. Settled in and comfortable in her mild deception she relayed her order to the waitress.

Booth could tell simply by what she ordered that it had been breakfast yesterday. On the rare occasions when her healthy appetite showed its presence he was always impressed by how much food she could fit into her tiny body. He smiled again, a knowing smile that Brennan curiously asked him about. He shook his head, not wanting to explain the reason for the sudden uplift in his mood, but she persisted.

"Okay, it's like this, Bones," he began, leaning across the table. "This thing has turned the whole country upside down, just like 9/11 did. We're both working ourselves to the bone, no pun intended, trying to find justice for all of these faceless people we'll never know." Anne's face briefly flashed through his mind, and he had to stop for a moment to collect himself before he could continue.

"We may never identify all of the victims, and we may never find who is responsible. We could have been attacked by any nation in the world for all we know, and we still could at any given time in the future. We may be launched into another global commitment of the armed forces if we ever do find out who was responsible. But the bottom line is that my son will now grow up in a world where he may not be as safe at home in his own bed as I thought he was five days ago. And I really don't know how I feel about that. But one thing is for sure..." he trailed off as he met her gaze head on.

"This," he motioned with his right hand to the space between he and Brennan, "is my constant. It's like a beacon to me and it will always keep me grounded and remind me of what's important. This will always feel right and good, and no matter how long it's been we'll always have this." He motioned to the air between them again.

"We'll have formica?" she questioned, looking down at the table, her brow furrowed with puzzlement.

He chuckled, and for a moment she almost saw a twinkle. "No, Bones. We'll have us."

She sucked in a breath. _Wait...what did he just say? Us? What the hell..._

"Us! As in our partnership!" he clarified. At her blank look, he assumed she needed further clarification. "You know...brilliant scientist?...dashing FBI Agent?...Catching bad guys?...Gun?" he tried hopefully.

"Of course," she agreed, still somewhat flustered but beginning to recover. "I think I understand. As your partner on a daily basis we have become integrated in each other's lives as friends. And what I think you are trying to say that when times are turbulent and start to change or deteriorate it's always good to have one thing that remains completely stationary in order to maintain a point of reference."

"Exactly!" he exclaimed triumphantly, pointing his finger at her as he took a drink of his coffee. "You're my lighthouse, Bones," he grinned cheekily.

"But Booth, there's a flaw in your logic," she countered, her nervous rambling not giving her time to think about what she was saying before she said it.

"Oh yeah, what's that?" he asked warily, not really wanting to know.

"Well, historically lighthouses were used to guide ships into the safety of harbor at night, or in times of inclement weather or intense fog. On a beautiful day like this when the waters were calm and the sun was shining they really served no purpose. If I am to proxy your lighthouse analogy, it's really telling me that our partnership doesn't serve as a true point of reference approximately 80% of the time, because your allegorical skies are bright and clear," satisfied with her explanation she sat back from the table and took a deep breath.

Booth gazed at his partner, speechless for a long moment before pushing himself back from the table. "Well then, Bones, good thing you explained all that to me. I might've really made an idiot of myself trying to explain that to anyone else."

Brennan could see the hurt in his eyes, the slight smile that had managed to show itself only moments before suddenly missing again from within the black depths. She felt like kicking herself, and had never wanted to disappear as much as in that moment.

Hodgins saved her the trouble, hurrying through the door of the diner and scooting into the seat next to Booth, jostling his left arm slightly.

"Hey, easy there Hodgins," he hissed, protectively pulling himself away from the agitated scientist and rubbing his shoulder.

"Sorry, man. But you have to come back to the lab," he directed his statement at both of them.

"What? Why?" Booth demanded, ready to argue that their food hadn't arrived yet and Brennan needed to eat.

Hodgins looked into Booth's eyes with an intensity that almost frightened the larger man. "Because I found something...something huge."

END OF CHAPTER 6


	7. Chapter 7

Authors Note: Thanks for those of you who have reviewed. I know this story is taking a little while to get going, but I promise it will take off in a few more chapters. And I'm trying to do a better job of posting quicker updates also. So all reviews are definitely appreciated - let me know what you think so far!

CHAPTER 7

"So what, exactly, are we looking at here?" Booth demanded, his eyes narrowing mildly at the computer screen at Hodgins' lab station. For the millionth time he wondered futilely if he would recognize anything he saw or heard over the next sixty seconds before it was translated into what he called "Squint Speak for Dummies".

The smaller man furtively gazed around the lab, his outstretched arms drawing Booth and Brennan uncomfortably close together around his desk. The proximity caused her shoulder to press lightly into Booth's chest, though not uncomfortably, and he was momentarily able to catch the faint wafting scent of her shampoo. The clean smell of her skin was unbearably tantalizing, and for a rare and brief moment he allowed his mind to wander.

For some reason the not-so-distant memory of the strength behind her right hook as it connected with his jaw came unbidden to his mind. It was enough to effectively jolt him and his emotions into submission, but unfortunately it also served to increase his general irritability. Forcefully he extracted himself from her side to a neutral position away from the effects of her presence. Trying to regain his focus on the discussion at hand, he instead became immediately aware of the scientist's edgy and guarded countenance. Booth gradually realized the meaning behind the man's odd behavior, causing his surprisingly ill-tempered attitude to degrade even further.

"Oh, come on," Booth declared grumpily, now mad at Hodgins as well as himself. "Please tell me you didn't drag Bones and I away from our one hot meal of the day for another one of your damn conspiracy theories."

"This is not a conspiracy theory," Hodgins began, but quickly wilted under the brooding glare of the agent. "Okay," he retracted slightly, "this may contain a slightly conspiratorial slant," he grabbed Booth's good arm as the larger man turned to walk away. "But this is in no way just a theory. I have hard and fast evidence to prove it."

At the mention of evidence Booth's flight was halted. He chanced a quick glance at his partner, noticing that the mention of evidence, as always, caused her eyes to noticeably light up. "Dr. Hodgins, why don't you share your evidence with us," she guided gently, aware of the tension surrounding them and fumbling valiantly to try to deflect it. Booth turned back so that his body was again facing towards Hodgins, though his right hand was petulantly tucked into his pants pocket in a signatory show of resistence. Hodgins blew out a steadying breath, then clicked to open three different screens on his computer.

"This satellite image was taken of the DOJ building just moments before the bombing," he stated reverently, pointing to the familiar outline of the massive building. "And this," he used the mouse to zoom in on a section of street where a dark shadow waited menacingly, "is what we've been told was the source of the blast."

Booth recognized the vehicle from its location, curiosity now battling his earlier irritability as he took a step closer to the monitor and gazed at it a moment before Hodgins' words registered. "What do you mean what we've been told? I was there Hodgins, I saw first hand that this van right here," he jabbed his finger into the screen, ripples of color surrounding the pressure point, "exploded and took everything in a two block radius with it."

"Agreed," the scientist nodded. Booth's confusion must have shown on his face, because Hodgins continued with only a momentary pause. "This van did indeed explode, carrying a massive force with it. BUT...and here's the big 'but'...by my calculations there is no way possible that enough volatile accelerant or propellant could have been packed into that van to cause an explosion with enough force to do the damage that was done."

Booth stared at the shorter man, now wanting to kill him even more for dragging him away from his beloved cheeseburger and fries. "THAT is your evidence?" he huffed. "That the government is somehow covering up something about the attack because the van is too small?"

"No," Hodgins snorted derisively, "THAT was my hypothesis. THIS," he turned his back to the agent, clicked, and pointed to one of the other computer screens, "is my evidence."

Brennan moved in, making her first attempt to interrupt the proceedings as she studied the monitor. Chemical compounds and sample notes covered the screen, and she hastily followed Hodgins' scribbled trail of thought. She reached the last equation and turned to Hodgins for clarification, the two of them instantly and animatedly discussing his illegible scribbles.

Booth tried to follow their heated conversation, but to his unscientific ears all he heard was, "...thermo something...kinesis something...blah blah blah...hexamethyl-something...blah blah blah...".

"So what does all this mean in English?" he finally interrupted, never ceasing to feel like the world's dumbest human while evidence was translated for him.

"What this means, G-man, is that there was another bomb that went off at the exact same time, most likely from somewhere inside the building," Hodgins stated, so matter-of-factly that Booth wondered for a moment if he were making a joke.

"Come again? And DON'T call me G-man," he threatened.

"Sorry, dude, got a bit carried away there. This van," Hodgins pointed to the screen again, "did only minimal damage considering the chemical make-up of what it was carrying. The real damage came from the inside out, most likely from this area," he pointed to the courtyard. "I'm betting that the bomb was strategically placed directly underneath this section," he pointed to the wall directly south of the large fountain located in the courtyard.

"Great," Booth mumbled under his breath, "more goodies under a fountain."

Hodgins became more subdued at that point, a warning to Booth that his tone had shifted the gears of the conversation. "The residual particulates that we have been able to recover from the...victims," he struggled, "have, for the most part, been coated with the propellant found to be used from the van. But there was an anomaly that I wasn't able to explain until late this afternoon."

Again he turned back to the computer monitor, pointing at a specific equation. "This chemical compound has been on almost every victim's body that has been brought in here, but it wasn't found anywhere in the van itself. It is a hugely volatile substance, very controlled in most instances due to its propensity to spontaneously erupt and cause massive explosions when used in lab work. It burns very hot, but leaves a trace chemical residue on everything that it comes in contact with."

"Toxic?" Booth asked, now wondering if the blast would eventually kill him from cancer several years down the road due.

"No. But its volatility explains why it would be a preferred substance for use in a catastrophic attack like this. With the addition of the right trigger and good timing, it could have easily wiped out the entire Federal Triangle, if not the whole Capital Mall."

Booth tapped his finger against his forehead, closing his eyes momentarily to take in what his squint had just told him. "So basically there were two bombs and the one outside was just a decoy," he surmised.

Hodgins nodded. "Pretty much. More than likely the building would have been leveled even if the bomb in the van never even detonated."

Brennan nodded her agreement. "If a bomb was in the lower subterranean levels of the building and had enough force, it would definitely explain why the entire building was destroyed and not just the easternmost side closest to where the vehicle was parked, as has previously happened in other attacks of this nature."

Booth paused for a moment. He was starting to understand their logic, and scarier still he was starting to believe the possibility of the scenario Hodgins had presented. After all, his team of squints had never failed him before, and even though he never purposefully boosted their egos he trusted their scientific knowledge implicitly. But now the nagging thought that had crept into his mind now pushed its way to the front and he rubbed his hand over his face again. Brennan knew the gesture was a sign of frustration as he processed information, and silently watched as Booth's mind lurched to find his voice.

"Ok, so riddle me this, Bugman. How would someone get that big of a bomb into the Justice building, undetected and unnoticed, without blowing themselves up in the process?"

Hodgins chanced a look at Brennan, an act not unnoticed by Booth. "Well," he hesitated, "that's the part you're not going to like."

"Why, what does that mean?"

Hodgins winced at Booth's pensive expression, hoping he didn't get shot because of his next statement. "It means somebody pretty high up must have known about the bomb and not only allowed it to go off, but orchestrated a means to get it there in the first place."

Brennan was still for a long moment as she processed Hodgins' words, then turned slightly to assess her partner. He was absolutely still, and she could see his mind desperately trying to gather itself around what he had just been told. For a man who gauged himself with honor and integrity, nothing would shatter his foundation like this.

Booth had almost been killed. He had witnessed dozens of other violent deaths, and had risked his life to protect another only to find it was in all in vain, and all because of an obviously senseless attack. Now he was faced with the possibility that the attack had not come from an enemy that could be identified and neutralized, but from within his own people...from within his own justice system. To know that the mental and physical trauma that had been inflicted on him over the last week had been caused by one of his own people was unfathomable, and not something easily accepted.

"No," Booth was shaking his head. "No, there is no way that anyone would allow this to happen if they knew about it ahead of time."

"Booth," Brennan began, but was cut off by a wave of his arm.

"No, Bones, forget it! Hodgins, your conspiracy theories have finally caused you to go off the deep end," he accentuated his statement with a sharp tapping of his finger to his temple.

"I told you you weren't going to like it," Hodgins repeated, unwavering in his assertion.

"No, I don't like it...I don't like it at all. You know why?" Booth questioned. "Because it's all wrong. It just doesn't feel right and I know well enough to trust my gut."

"Booth, this is no time to involve your digestive tract," Brennan said dismissively. "We have empirical evidence that supports what Hodgins is saying."

"No, we don't!" Booth thundered. "We have evidence that shows another bomb, that's all. We still have no idea how it got there or who's responsible. Hodgins is always going to lean towards some big black government conspiracy, but that just doesn't make sense here and it's not the only possibility."

"Of course it doesn't make sense. Nothing about this makes sense," Brennan countered. "But logically, Hodgins is right. You yourself have said security was tight enough that no one could do this without being discovered or dead themselves."

"There just..." his face was pinched tight. "There has to be another explanation."

She looked at his face, and at the determination clearly present behind the large white bandage still marring his strong forehead. Desperately she wanted to concede whatever was necessary in order to bring back his twinkling smile, but even as she was tempted to placate his resistance to the facts she was unable to find any logic to justify doing so.

"Booth," she began gently. "What we have right now is evidence. And we should collect all of the relevant evidence to prove what happened, just as if this were any other case. I'm not interested in jumping to conclusions," she threw a pointed look at Hodgins. "But I'm also not going to ignore evidence and where it might lead me just because it doesn't fit into some preconceived idea that half of the free world has formed about what really happened during the bombing."

Booth was staring intently at her, his face unreadable, wordlessly scrutinizing her as he often used to do so long ago when they first began working together.

"Evidence," she repeated, more firmly this time. "We need to focus on the evidence."

A pregnant pause, followed by Booth violently pushing himself away from the table he had been half leaning on. He began to move away from her and Hodgins, then suddenly seemed to change his mind mid-stride and returned to come nose to nose with Brennan. There was a fierceness in his eyes that she had only seen before on rare occasions, and he had completely invaded her personal space as he also often did in the early days of their partnership.

Brennan had always assumed he had done so as a means of unconsciously trying to assert himself as the dominant force. But now, but his current proximity combined with the intense stare was enough to make the usually composed anthropologist completely uncomfortable.

After what seemed like an eternity he finally spoke, in a low voice only she could hear. "You want evidence? I'll get you evidence."

END of Chapter 7


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

Special Agent Seeley Booth had developed a deep, if sometimes still grudging, respect for the scientists at the Jeffersonian. Mostly because they were just that: scientists. No group of people could sift through and uncover evidence with the thoroughness and blunt science like his team of squints back at the lab, and it took only one day of working with government-trained Homeland Security and FBI forensic experts for him to fully appreciate the effectiveness of his normal team.

If it had been any other case, Booth knew he would have had to swallow a lot of pride in order to make the call to request Hodgins' help on site, but in this instance he knew it was not necessary. The scientist had been just as deeply wounded by the travesty of the event as he, and the agent knew no apologies or gloating would be necessary.

Now as he waited for him in the darkening twilight at the edge of the crater that used to be the DOJ building, he wondered for the umpteenth time about the hypothesis presented to him the evening before; that someone or a group of some ones from inside his own government were responsible for this massive loss of life. As abhorrent and sickening as the thought was to him he had to admit, for the first time, that it was entirely possible.

Secretive government operations had been taking place since before the birth of the country itself; espionage, treason, and national deception pre-dated the Revolutionary War. Booth himself had been a party to many classified and top secret actions that had never been officially sanctioned by a specific branch of the government, despite the fact that he was "officially" a member of the Army as a Ranger. In the event he or any member of his team had ever been killed or captured while in country, no one entity could be held responsible and all could maintain plausible deniability.

Still, he reasoned, sanctioning the assassination of a terrorist or dictator in a third world country was completely different than plotting an attack on American soil, on Americans, by Americans. Even old theories that the government knew about the attack on Pearl Harbor ahead of time and allowed it to happen draw the US into World War II was a far cry from launching the attack themselves. Either way it was not something he was completely prepared to digest yet.

Booth's stomach growled, reminding him that nothing else had been digested lately either. He had never ever been so consumed by work that he had forgotten to eat; never been so absorbed in his process that food was somehow, unbeknownst to him, missing from the day. He had fussed at Brennan for years for doing just that, and was now slowly beginning to realize it was not always a conscious decision. He had spent the entire day at the blast site, overseeing the collection of evidence and conferring with the highly government-trained forensic agents, and before he knew it the day was gone. The shadows were growing longer in the impending dusk, and he shivered slightly as his stomach growled again.

"Allright, pipe down," he commanded softly. His stomach continued to protest, so he moved to one of the large tents that had been erected on the perimeter of the site and filled his coffee cup again for the umpteenth time.

"Hey, Booth," he heard Hodgins' voice after emerging from the tent. Booth almost laughed out loud at the site before him. Hodgins was wearing his normal navy blue Jeffersonian jumpsuit, but had layered warm clothes underneath it to the point of restricting movement. His arms skewed out awkwardly to the sides, giving him the appearance of not being able to completely lower his arms.

"WHAT are you doing?" Booth finally asked, pointing to the man's clothing.

"Hey, you said to meet you at the blast site in order to help collect evidence. I figure if I'm going to be outside for hours on end and it's going to get down into the 'teens tonight I'd better bundle up."

Booth shook his head. "Hodgins, we're not at the North Pole."

"Hmph. We'll see which one of us gets cold first," he wagered, waggling his eyebrows at the taller man.

Booth shook his head and turned to walk towards the site, Hodgins falling in step behind him. His voice was lowered when he spoke again. "Um, I thought you'd like to know..." the scientist began, somewhat uncertainly.

The sound of Hodgins' voice stopped him in his tracks. He didn't turn around, simply turned his head slightly towards the other man behind him. He had been afraid of receiving this information ever since his mind had begun calculating the personal human ramifications of the attack.

"What is it?" he asked, dreading the news and not wanting to hear it.

"Dr. Brennan, she..." Hodgins began, then paused heavily. Booth picked up on the hesitation, and the pause that lasted far too long. In a split second his train of thought shifted, quickly beginning to fear that maybe his initial read of the conversation was completely wrong and that something had happened to his partner.

He turned then to fully face Hodgins, his controlled mind not yet allowing him to panic. "What about Brennan? Is she okay?"

"What?" Hodgins asked, not understanding at first, until he recognized the barely concealed yet increasing sign of confusion and panic on Booth's face. Quickly he realized that his hesitation had caused it. "No!" he began vehemently. "No no...GOD no! Brennan's fine," he soothed, "I'm sorry, I just..." he stopped again. "I'm just not very good at this," his voice threatened to break again.

Booth's rising panic was averted swiftly, though he did make a note to call Brennan later in the evening to discuss the information that he knew was coming from Hodgins. Booth also took pity on him, not wanting his friend to have to vocalize what he already knew, and decided to spare him the extra grief.

"Caroline."

Hodgins looked at him with red eyes, not yet tearful but on the verge. "Yeah. How did you..."

"I just figured," Booth shrugged his shoulders. "She was a workaholic – no way she wasn't there on a Friday afternoon. That and she hadn't answered my calls all week," he finished. "So Bones was the one...that..." he left the question hanging in the air.

Hodgins nodded. "She positively identified Ms. Julian earlier this afternoon."

Booth nodded. "She was a great lady. I'll miss her."

"Me too. Even though it seemed like she was usually yelling at us for how we screwed up in one way or another."

Booth let out a low chuckle. "Yeah, she was just that way. All business," he began, but changed his thought mid-sentence. "But with a slightly puckish side," he offered fondly. His cheeks grew slightly red when he thought of his last encounter with Caroline's "puckish"-ness, and at the sweet dreams of mistletoe he had for weeks afterwards. _Yet another thing I'll never get to thank Caroline for..._

They had reached the edge of the bomb sight when Hodgins audibly gasped as he drew up next to Booth. "Oh my god," he whispered.

For a long moment he regarded nothing but the gaping hole in the ground, speechless at the magnitude of the moment. Then he chanced a glance at the tall agent beside him, a man who had brought strength and honor into the forefront of all of their lives, and a man he was proud to call his friend. He was suddenly overcome with the urge and reached over and clapped him on the back, surprise evident in Booth's eyes.

"I'm glad you're still here with us, man," he finally managed, not caring if the agent thought he was crazy for such an outward show of emotion.

Booth's voice dropped when he responded, and he seemed only slightly uncomfortable. "Yeah. Me too."

Hodgins nodded, then retracted his hand in order to readjust his bag over his shoulder. He had only gone a few steps towards the access path down into the massive crater when Booth's voice stopped him.

"Hey, Hodgins," he began, two strides easily bringing him to the scientist's side again. "Thanks," he offered, a small but genuine smile crossing his weary face. "Thanks for...you know...thanks for caring."

Hodgins easily returned the smile. It was rare to see the strong and confident man suddenly sheepish and at a loss for words, at least with anyone other than Dr. Brennan. "No problem."

Booth managed to right himself, his outward posture returning to that of the strong special agent Hodgins was more familiar with. "And, just so you know, I really do hope you're wrong about this," he began.

Hodgins rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to protest when Booth cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"Simmer down and let me finish!" he commanded, take-charge Booth apparently now back in control. "I was just going to say that I hope you're wrong. And if you're not I don't have to like it," he emphasized. "But I know and expect you and the rest of the squint squad to be honest and find the truth, no matter how ugly it might be. And I hope you know that I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure you guys have the chance to do that. We clear?"

Another slight smile tugged at one corner of his mouth as he nodded his assent. "Crystal."

"Good." Booth slapped an official FBI identification badge into the shorter man's chest, releasing his hold as Hodgins grabbed it and stared at a small picture of himself. "Because you're now 'un'-officially FBI and it's going to be a long night."

END OF CHAPTER 8

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